


The Ways Home

by winter_dreaming



Category: North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Awkward Tension, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Misunderstandings, Post Credits, Social Justice, Use Your Words, a-ni-mal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2019-08-01 12:34:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16284716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_dreaming/pseuds/winter_dreaming
Summary: Post credit scene for North and South in which the characters actually have to resolve the mess they've made - with one another and in their communities - instead of just fading into black...Please leave comments if you're so moved! I love getting any type of feedback.





	1. A Difficult Journey

Margaret Hale watched the scenery fly by, thinking of what had brought her to this point, this strange happiness. She looked back at him, marveling at Mr. Thornton - John - his acceptance of her despite her reputation. A crack of doubt briefly threatened her feelings before she shamed herself and him as unworthy of such thoughts: _does he love me or does he simply need these 15 thousand pounds? What does he want with a woman of my reputation? What of Miss Latimer?_

__She was still staring at him, she realized, when he gently stroked her cheek._ _

__"What is it?" he asked, his eyes so kind, so soft and full of love that her words, and tears, began to form._ _

__Until she looked beyond him to the passengers walking by their compartment. Two older women and a young gentleman stopped to briefly look in and grace them with such a mixture of haughty disgust and excitement that the words stuck in her throat. The eldest woman turned toward her for one final condemnation and by a trick of the light, Margaret could read her gossiping whispers._ _

__"Disgusting. No shame at all, that one. And with a reverend for a father, no less."_ _

__Margaret stopped hearing the train rattling toward their future._ _

__She stopped feeling his hand on her cheek._ _

__She stopped hearing his questions._ _

__Everything fell still and dead._ _

__"Nothing," she said in his general direction, her tears completely gone._ _

__He looked closer at her, but seemed satisfied and leaned back against the seat. Soon, his eyes fluttered closed and he was asleep._ _

__She numbly occupied the bench next to him, feeling like her dreams – shining, half-formed things though they were- died with each clack of the train along its northern route._ _

*** 

The knock on the door came so faintly that Nicholas almost couldn't hear it over the sounds of the playing children, reading children, stick-throwing children, and his Mary quietly, but firmly, attempting to bring the entire place to order. He'd been expecting Thomas Granger, a former union man at Slickson's mill who said they'd take him on, and was momentarily dumbfounded by the appearance of Miss Margaret instead. Momentarily. _Good on you, Thornton, _he thought.__

__"So, he fetched you back from London, did he?" he said, a small smile playing on his lips as he leaned against the door._ _

__She nodded, then shook her head, then burst into tears._ _

__Mary immediately left the child she'd been schooling behind and threw her arms around her, bringing her into the house. At a loss, he closed the door behind them._ _

__She quickly composed herself and smiled wanly at Mary as the latter busied herself with tea. "I apologize for intruding. I know with the mill closed, and…" she absentmindedly patted a child tugging on her dress on the head, "you all have much more important things to attend to."_ _

__"I'd wager you wouldn't be here if it weren't important," he countered. An ugly thought rose in his mind. "Did he do something to you?"_ _

__She looked up instinctively, but shook her head. Higgins relaxed a bit and sat down at the small wooden table, gesturing for her to do the same._ _

__"Yes," she said and Higgins's head shot up._ _

__"I do not quite know," she admitted helplessly. Her eyes strayed to Bessy's former bed and the children that played more quietly there now, watching them with saucer eyes. She looked away from the children sadly and intently studied the chipped teacup that Mary had just put in front of her. He read the thought there and his heart ached for it: _I wish Bessy was here._ __

__"Why don't you just start at the beginning?" Mary said unexpectedly and reached out a calloused, capable hand to Margaret's soft, delicate one._ _

__Margaret squeezed her hand, took a deep breath, and in fits and starts told them of Plato, the misunderstood handshake, the mob, a politely generalized form of Thornton's declarations and his tirades at rejection, Frederic and the train station, Thornton's jealousy and condemnation and protection, Mr. Bell's unexpected declaration and news, and stopping at the half-way point between London and Milton._ _

_____Higgins sat with his head resting on one hand, suddenly exhausted by the complexity of it, and more than a little angry at Thornton's childish temper. Mary remained attentive, patting Margaret's hand whenever she faltered in her re-telling. ___"Then, I saw him on the northbound train. I told him I had a business proposition for him and that as my financial advisors, told me, I could invest money in the mill and get it up and running again." _"Well, miss, that would be very kind of you," Nicholas said, smiling. "But, I don't understand. Did he reject the offer?"________ _

______"I believe he accepted." Mary squeezed her hand again encouragingly. ___"He…he took my hand in his…" whistles like the ones that started and finished each shift started to go off in Nicholas's mind._ _ _______

____"And, I held his hand. And…I kissed it," she said, her cheeks bright red. _Not good, but not necessarily bad neither,_ Nicholas thought. ___ _

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___"And then he kissed me." The bells began to go off again, louder than before._ _ _

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___"Where?" Mary burst out._ _ _

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___"On the platform," Margaret answered._ _ _

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___Mary shot her father a quelling look so he wouldn't laugh._ _ _

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___"She means, where…" Nicholas gestured, the humor of her remark fading in light of the real trouble he sensed she was in._ _ _

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___Margaret gestured very quickly to her lips and bowed her head, her cheeks still aflame._ _ _

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___"Now, I must marry him. My reputation is in ruins," she finished._ _ _

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___Nicholas reeled. This _was _bad._____

 _ _ _Mary leaned forward, her normally serene face a swirl of emotions. "Are you saying that in all this time, he never once spoke to your father about this? Or came to dinner or had a cup of tea? Or brought you flowers? Or asked if he could go walking with you?"_ _ _

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___"And what would you know about walking out with boys, Mary Higgins?" Nicholas interjected, looking at his daughter half-humorously, half-suspiciously._ _ _

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___"I know that's what should be done instead of all that," she replied primly and turned away from her father. "Do you love him?" she asked quietly._ _ _

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___"It no longer matters what I feel. I must. There is nothing more to discuss, I suppose. I have taken up enough of your time with my slight troubles, and I apologize -"_ _ _

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___"Margaret-" Nicholas interrupted and she paused._ _ _

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___"I came to you because," she hiccuped a bit, "because you are my friends and I needed counsel. Frederic is too far away and I cannot trust Mr. Bell to counsel me fairly even I could reach him. My mother and father are dead and all of my relatives in London wish me to marry another."_ _ _

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___"What about Mrs. Thornton?" he ventured._ _ _

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___Both Mary and Margaret shot him looks of disbelief._ _ _

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___He held his hands up in surrender. "You're right, never you mind about her."_ _ _

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___"Would you not counsel me, Nicholas? As if I were your daughter?" she looked at him hopefully._ _ _

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___"Me? Me daughter a fine young lady set to marry a master?"_ _ _

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___"Please forget all that and just…if I were Mary, what would you tell me to do?"_ _ _

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___Mary nodded him on but Nicholas suddenly fell pale and shoved himself away from the table. He looked around their room again, the other children suddenly gone quiet at his outburst. Looking at Bessy's bed, remembering how Margaret had brought a light to her eyes, to her life. Seeing Bessy laugh with a girl her own age, talking girl's secrets, and be comforted by her when all he could do was mutely watch her suffer. Bessy had taken after her mother – all fire and nerves, dancing around the machines with more skill than babes twice her age. And they'd needed the money. He'd doomed her, his Bess. He'd failed her, even after he'd sent for doctors and sent her as fast as he could to Malborough. He'd killed her. And now, this friend to Bessy, this fine young lady was putting her life, trusting her life in his hands._ _ _

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___"I am so sorry for offending you, Mr. Higgins," she began and he held up a hand to stop her._ _ _

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___"It's not that, child. You didn't offend me," he said thinking of how to begin._ _ _

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___He plunged ahead. "I have more children than I know what to do with. What's another daughter in the mix? I'll give you counsel, Margaret, but you may not like it."_ _ _

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	2. Another Knock on the Door

John Thornton walked home from the train station, floated home really, and his dreamy heaven was met by a living hell. He had no sooner opened the door, than was embroiled in his mother's rage, Fanny's petulant wailing, and the household staff clucking over the latter.  


"What has happened?" he demanded as he strode across the room, but instead of the din subsiding in response to his question, his presence seemed to make it significantly worse. Fanny started bawling, his mother began shouting at her maid, and the other staff were trying their best to look both appropriately affronted on Fanny's behalf, as well as completely invisible.  


Hannah whirled toward him, her fury written on her face and grabbed tightly him by the arms.  


"Tell me, you didn't do this," she commanded.  


"Mother, please, be calm. Do what?"  


At this, Fanny, who had been gradually recovering, threw up her hands in a dramatic faint.  


Hannah shook him. "Mind me, John. I'll only ask you the once. Are you," she took a deep breath to steady herself, "marrying that…podsnapping wagtail! Well, are you?!"  


John forcefully removed his mother's hands from his person but stepped forward to loom over her. "If you are referring to Miss Hale, yes, she and I are to be married." Fanny once again, almost resuscitated, fell back onto the chaise.  


"But you will _never_ refer to her in such ways ever again if you wish to remain in this house and under my care."  


Hannah instinctively took a step back, suddenly unsure of herself.  


"How dare you malign Miss Hale in such a fashion," he continued. He gave her his back and intended to leave the entire deranged scene behind him.  


"I'll speak to you again when you and Fanny get your senses back," he said and started up the stairs.  


"John, John, listen to me," Hannah began, trailing after him to the grand staircase. "We don't need the money that badly. John, we'll work everything out, I promise. But I'd rather have us poor than you sell yourself to _that_ woman!"  


"It might interest you to know, mother, that I love Miss Hale," he said, giving her his profile. He stopped on the stairs, suddenly exhausted.  


Hannah gathered up her nerve to try one last thing to dissuade him. _Angry now, he'll thank me come spring._ "And she loves you, does she? She _has_ to marry you now, you fool! No one else will accept such a woman!" she cawed.  


Thornton's anger turned to a cold hatred that he'd never felt toward his mother before. "It would be best for both of you to be out visiting when I come down for dinner," he said and walked up the staircase, deaf to Fanny's cries and the staff tittering.

John bolted the door to his room with the fervent trembling of someone with a mob at their heels. He leaned against the cold wooden door, wondering how it had come to this. He looked absentmindedly around the simple room – while on his way home he had been imagining – well, all sorts of things, and now everything seemed ugly and miserable in comparison. He thought of Miss – of, _Margaret's_ , he corrected himself, tender kiss. The way her hair felt as it brushed his fingers, his desire to touch more of her skin - his face felt hot and he tightly curled his fists to try and regain some control. He went to the small window and the cold radiating from the outside seemed to temper the offense he felt on Miss Hale's behalf. 

He caught a glimpse of himself in the window. Despite straightening his clothing before escorting her out at Milton, he still looked…strange, unkempt to his own eyes. _Am I fit to be a husband to a lady such as Miss Hale?_ He looked around the room again – whereas before its sparse furnishings gave him a vague sort of pride at his Spartan lifestyle – when he thought about the room at all – now, he was embarrassed. The room barely looked lived in. A desk for papers, his books, and even those were a luxury, and a place for his clothing. 

_Now, _I'll_ be thinking of ordering myself some Indian wallpaper,_ he smiled ruefully. That brought to mind the scene from downstairs and he resolved to go down, apologize, and sort all this confusion out. He threw back the bolt and cracked open the door when he heard voices in the hallway 

\- In a train station, if you can believe that!" 

He recognized the voice of Jane, his mother's maid and stopped. 

"My word!" he heard Jenny, the kitchen maid. "And you said he was…" Jenny lowered her voice, "half-naked?" Their voices suddenly grew louder – they were walking toward his room. 

"Me grandmum was taking the train home from visiting my cousins and she saw the _whole_ thing. Along with the rest of Milton," she gloated. "Me grandmum told Mr. Sanders who had been sleeping during the stop but Mrs. Jackson and her boy- you know, Davie – they saw everything! Mr. Thornton with his clothes undone -- Mrs. Jackson was beside herself!" 

"No shame, that one," Jenny declared. "Free as the day is long. Thornton'll have to keep her away from train stations to be sure she doesn't take up with whoever strikes her fancy!" 

"Davie told his mates from the mill when he saw them in the pub and they had such a funny joke about her –" 

"Oh, go on," Jenny urged. 

"What's the difference between regular hail and Milton's _fine_ Miss Hale?" 

Giggles filled the corridor. 

"Regular hail takes a lot longer to melt."

He slowly shut the door but heard the girls continuing to talk, clear as a bell. 

"Now, I suppose I shouldn't say she's _completely_ shameless– grandmum said Miss Hale turned white as a ghost when they passed by." 

"Like you when your mother caught you and _Davie_ round the back of the house, like?" 

There was another fit of giggling and then silence as the girls departed for their chores. The hallway was empty. "God, Margaret," he said and flew down the stairs. Just in time to see the door open and hear the indignant squawk of their housekeeper. 

"Mr. Thornton, what on earth am I supposed to do with a _basket?_ " she asked derisively, her hands on her formidable hips. 

_Margaret?_ He thought and flung the door open. 

_Oh._

"Good afternoon, Higgins. I'm afraid I have to – is everything alright? All the children are well?" 

Higgins smiled as the housekeeper's face soured at the unforgivable familiarity. "Yes, master. Everything is fine. Mary and I were out walking and we decided to pay you a visit." He gestured toward the basket. "There's some tea in there and Mary made you up a plate of stew." 

"Higgins, that is…" Despite his panic, he was genuinely touched by the gesture. 

"The basket is a southern custom, master," Higgins said evenly and held his gaze for a moment. 

"Now, who are you to be _calling_ on Mr. Thornton with your customs," she screeched. "Get out of here right now, the both of –" 

"See to my mother," Thornton said and stepped in front of her, forcing her to grumble her way back into the house. 

Higgins and Mary waited at the door- Mary held onto the basket as if for dear life and Higgins twisted his cap back and forth. 

"A _southern_ custom?" Thornton repeated. 

They both nodded. 

"You'd best come in, then."


	3. A Southern Custom

"I apologize that my hospitality is so lacking," Thornton began as the slam of the kitchen door angrily echoed through the foyer. "I'll speak to her about it tomorrow." 

"Thornton, I –" Higgins started before catching sight of a growing flicker of light. Sarah, who lit the lamps in the evening and laid the fires in the morning, was set about her work. She startled when she came upon them but couldn't contain a brief squeal of pleasure at seeing Mary. After an uncertain curtesy in Thornton's direction, she waited for instructions. 

He smiled, "Go on, you two," and reached out for the candle. "Higgins and I will do this tonight." 

She shyly smiled and the girls clasped hands and walked off into the house. 

"Best to stay out of the kitchen, yeah?" Higgins called after them. "Sarah's a good girl," he mused. "Her mother's sick like my Bessy was. I gave her all the medicine I had left. Got a bit money together from the other workers so she could see a doctor." 

"Her father?" 

"Gone these ten years now. Accident at the mill." 

"Mine?" Thornton asked, fearing the worst but Higgins shook his head. _Small favors_ , he thought. 

Higgins looked around the entryway awkwardly. "Is there somewhere private we can talk? One where I won't drag muck all over your furnishings?" he raised a muddy boot to make his point. 

"I don't care about the rugs, especially after the greeting you received tonight. My study is both warm and private…if that will suit you." 

"That'll do me fine but the servants won't thank you for the mess." 

"I don't need them to, Higgins. I need them to do their jobs and do them well," he said coldly and gestured toward the stairs. 

"Lead on, then." 

Higgins seemed at odds in the room, though to Thornton's eyes it was only slightly more lived in than his bedroom. The biggest difference was the books that lined the floor to ceiling shelves. His guest looked around as if dazed. 

"I didn't know there were this many books in the whole world. You read them all?" 

"No," Thornton admitted as he lit the lamps. "But, I buy them anyway. I like to know what people think," he finished and blew out the candle. 

Higgins laughed. "No wonder you're taken with Miss Margaret." That broke Thornton's feigned calm, his shell of indifference, and he strode over to Higgins and grabbed him by the shoulders. 

"Is she well? Where is she?!" 

Higgins raised an eyebrow at Thornton's grip, causing him to immediately regret his loss of composure and step back. He raked his hands across his face and gestured helplessly to the armchair by the fire. 

"I apologize. Again. I am not myself today." 

He waited as Higgins mulled over the apology and breathed an internal sigh of relief when the older man settled into the proffered chair. 

"Where will you be sitting, then? While I'm on this throne of yours?" 

Thornton grabbed a low stool he used to reach the top level of books and set that in front of the fire. 

"She came to me for advice," Higgins said without preamble. 

"What kind of advice?" 

"As if she were one of my own," Higgins said awkwardly. "At the moment," he said, seeing Thornton's disbelief, "I have the dubious honor of being the only one of the men she knows that's not looking to marry her." 

Thornton cleared his throat, grateful that the first words out of his mouth hadn’t been: _She's changed her mind_

"Well, it seems as if my life, my happiness is in your hands," he said grimly. "What do you need from me?" 

Higgins leaned forward. "You said yourself there's no masters here – next week, next month when the mill is up and running- fine. But right here, right now, I need you to answer to me as if I were the girl's father. I don't mean to dirty your friendship with Mr. Hale, I know how much affection you had for him, but the fact is that Margaret is alone. If he were alive, he'd be doing this in my place. But, he's not." 

The grief coursed so suddenly through Thornton that he almost felt ill with it. His friend was gone. The man whose kind intelligence, whose natural warmth had shown Thornton a different type of man to be, and forgave him when he fell short of that ideal, forgave him his sharp-edged ignorance and his lack of piety. The type of father he'd always wanted. And his heart ached anew with the loss of him. 

"She asked what I'd do if she were my daughter. I told her I'd go to the lad's house, put some uncomfortable questions to him, and depending on what he said, we'd know where we are." 

"So, here we are," Thornton said sadly.


	4. Some Uncomfortable Questions

The two men regarded one another in front of the gently crackling fire. Thornton forced himself to relax his white-knuckled grip on the sides of the stool and waited for Higgins to decide his fate. 

Strangely enough, the other man smiled. "Well, at least I don't have to ask the most obvious question. She blushed like a spring rose when she talked about your ride here." 

Thornton squinted at Higgins, uncomprehending, and then exploded out of his chair. 

"How dare you?!" 

Higgins matched his fury with an equal amount of calm. 

"I _dare_ because you don't even understand what you've done. Her reputation is ruined in both Milton and London and she'd likely need to go to Spain if it doesn’t get sorted out here and now." 

"I don't care about her reputation," Thornton shouted and advanced toward him. The sudden anger in Higgins' eyes stopped him in his place. 

"Don't care about her reputation, do you?" Higgins echoed, each word sounding like a condemnation. 

"Of course not," Thornton stammered. 

"She told me what you'd said to her after she rejected your offer." Higgins took a step toward him. "She told me what you said after you'd seen her and her brother." Higgins moved toward him again, his voice deceptively light. "And believe me, Thornton, she was being kinder than you deserve when she described you but I could see what she was dancing around and what you'd said to her." 

Thornton took a step back, away from that burning stare that woke shame in his heart. 

"Be honest, Thornton. You cared. You care even now. But not about her reputation." Higgins deliberately stepped forward again until the men were practically nose to nose. "You were angry that you thought she'd chosen someone else." 

"He was her brother! You told me that!" 

"He is. That's knowing a story about her isn't true. Not caring for her, regardless. She rejected your first offer and you insulted her. Implied…well," he paused and chose his next words carefully. 

"Instead of respecting her affections like a man, you…do you know what would have happened if someone had heard what you'd said to her? You don't care that she wasn't being proper with her affections late at night. You were angry that she was giving those affections to some _other_ young man." He gently placed his finger on Thornton's chest and pushed once, though it seemed to knock him back with the force of a blow. 

"Did anyone ever tell you that you'd make a fearsome magistrate?" Thornton asked hoarsely. 

"Can't say they have," Higgins said and waited. 

It took Thornton a few moments to be able to look him in the eye. "Well, you're right. I was jealous." 

"I know you have a temper, Thornton, but I'd never seen you turn it on someone who didn't deserve it. Until she told me of what you'd said to her. In your jealousy." 

"I'm sorry," he began. 

"Don't be throwing your apologies my way," Higgins warned him. 

"I love her," he blurted. 

"Why?" Higgins countered. 

"I love her more than…" 

"Your sense of what's proper and decent?" 

Thornton thought of denying it, but the defense rang hollow in his mind. 

He walked back to his customary chair and resignedly sank into it. 

"Yes," he said gruffly, so low that Higgins could barely make it out. 

Higgins turned to excoriate his utter-damned selfishness but the words died on his lips. 

Thornton was slumped into his hands, which didn't quite hide the shine there from his tears. Despite his anger, Higgins felt for him. He squeezed his shoulder briefly and joined him by the fire. 

"That's not love, lad. That's obsession." 

"What's the difference?" Thornton asked thickly. 

Higgins looked puzzled. "The young ladies before Margaret. Did you feel this way about them?" 

Now, it was Thornton's turn to be confused. "What other young ladies?" 

"Girls you fancied in school, daughters of other masters, maybe a bonny millworker or two that caught your eye…" but Thornton shook his head. 

"There were none," he replied. 

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean what I said, Higgins," he said coldly. Thornton didn't think it was possible that something he _hadn't_ done would be as much a source of shame as what he _had_. 

"When I noticed Margaret, it was the first time I'd ever taken…notice of any young lady." 

Higgins tried to control the astonishment he felt but Thornton felt the need to explain himself further. 

"I left school as a boy and was responsible for my family. My sister was just born. I worked in the mill, you know the hours you work. I worked to make money to buy us food and slept only to do it all again." 

"What about the other boys your age? Your friends?" 

"Losing everything reveals your true friends," Thornton said stiffly. He remembered the taunts at his roughened hands, his constant cough, his hair that could never quite be free of cotton flecks. He remembered the silences when he approached his former friends until he stopped trying to speak to them altogether. He remembered swallowing his hatred when the mill began to prosper…and they came around with calling cards and invitations. He hated the lack of embarrassment in their eyes, their simple calculation that money made him worthwhile and its absence earned his isolation. 

"Only family sacrifices for one another," his mother warned in one of her rare displays of affection. "Love is sacrifice," she whispered as she wiped away his schoolboy tears with her calloused hands. He flinched instinctively at her touch, surprised by their coarseness as much as the touch itself. He wanted to sink into it, but she drew her hands back, looking at them in disgust. She avoided touching him after that but he swore that her hands would return to their soft, but clever, state. 

If he just worked hard enough, made enough money, maybe she would _comfortlovesee_ him again. She'd given him more affection since Marag- since Miss Hale came to Milton than in all the years before that. Maybe it took another woman to make her realize he was her son, not just the man who'd saved the mill. Or, that only faced with the idea of losing him, could she find the desire to love him. 

"Mrs. Thornton is a fierce woman," Higgins began, as he guessed the shape of his silence. "But, she's not an affectionate woman, is she?" 

The only reply was the crackle of the fire. 

"You never had the chance to talk to your father about such things?" 

Thornton felt as if he were back in that schoolyard with his mother telling him to come quickly, back to the doors slammed shut on glittering London parties, back to the unapologetic taunts. 

_Alone, alone, alone,_ he thought as he looked around, and gestured helplessly at the walls of books. 

"Tell me why you love her," Higgins said, much softer than before. 

"You mean my obsession?" he replied bitterly. 

"We're all like that with the first ones," Higgins said, smiling. "So, go on. Tell me why you love her." 

"She makes me want to be a better man." 

"You need a Bible for that, Thornton, not a wife," Higgins chided. 

"I want to know what she thinks," he supplied. 

"About what?" 

"About everything. About the mill, about Milton, about life, about all this," he gestured to the shelves again. 

"What of when you disagree?" 

"Especially when we disagree. I want her to speak her mind. I want to protect her, make sure no harm comes to her. I want her by my side. I want her," he finished, his body running hot and cold with the thought. 

"There's certain kinds that want a woman who speaks her mind. The kind who wants to bring her to heel and the kind that wants her and is proud of her as she is – with a mind and a mouth on her. I should know." 

"You fall into the second group, I believe," Thornton said, daring to raise his eyes. 

"My Lizzy and I met outside Sunday school. She'd be thrown out for asking too many hard questions and I'd been thrown out for doing too many hard things." He smiled at the memory. "She's my other half, even now, but it takes a different kind of man to be that. To want that. But, I wouldn't trade it for the world." He shook his head. "Whatever agreement you made with Mr. Hale about courting her, died with him. Margaret knows nothing of it. I don't want you to betray a confidence, but you must tell me what you agreed upon with her father." 

Thornton licked his lips nervously. "He and I never…I never…spoke about my…" 

"You never asked him for permission!? You never mentioned your feelings at all?" 

"I did not know what to do with what I felt," he confessed. 

This time, Higgins covered his face in his hands, though instead of tears, he began to laugh. "Jesus Christ, Thornton, and you wonder why she rejected you the first time. Cornered her alone in her own house, after speaking with her maybe twice, one of which Sarah thought was a fight." Higgins sighed, still laughing. 

Thornton flashed from anger to fear again. 

Higgins' laughter trailed off and he stood up. "It seems like you have something to ask me, lad." 

_Could it be?_

Thornton stood as well, hope rising in his chest. "Good evening, sir. My…my name is John, and I wish your permission and blessing to marry your daughter, Margaret."


	5. The Master's Manor

"You have it, John." He held up a finger in warning. "If," he paused, "she'll have you." 

Thornton froze in place, uncomprehending. "You…" 

"You have my permission and my blessing, if she accepts you." 

"I…" 

Nicholas reached out to shake his hand, breaking his stupor. Thornton grinned so widely his cheeks ached with it. His joy was contagious and Nicholas fought back a smile as well as he clapped him on the shoulder. 

"If she'll have you," he warned again. 

Thornton nodded absentmindedly, still dazed. "I'll go ask her," he decided and smoothed his clothes. 

"Thornton, it's late!" Nicholas objected. 

"Late?" 

"It's night," Higgins laughed. 

"Night," Thornton repeated as if he'd never heard the word before. He looked out the window, surprised at the blackness there. 

"Ask her in the morning," Nicholas explained helpfully. 

"The morning, yes. No. The morning? I can't wait until morning!" Thornton exclaimed. 

Nicholas shook him. Hard. 

"John, I'm only going to say this once. The first time you told her how you felt, you did it your way and she turned you away. She said goodbye to that brother of hers and tarnished her reputation. Then you indulged your affections at the station and destroyed it. Between the two of you…" Nicholas threw up his hands. "Do this, just this once, the right way. Wait until morning. Help her make a good choice." 

"I suppose you're right," Thornton murmured, the reference to her reputation like a slap in the face. Sobering. Painful. 

"John," he swallowed hard, "I hate to ask this but…" Nicholas suddenly had difficulty meeting his eyes. "What will you do if she refuses you?" 

His heart dropped. "I…I don't know what I would do." 

"If she _truly_ makes you want to be a better man, then you need to be that better man. Be that better man, no matter what." 

The sound of footsteps in the hall preceded a gentle knock on the door. 

"Father?" 

"That's my girl," Higgins explained. "We ought to be getting on home ourselves." 

"Yes, of course," Thornton said. 

Nicholas extended his hand again. "Good luck, John," he murmured. "Coming!" he called to his daughter and left Thornton in his solitary study. 

"How am I supposed to sleep tonight?" Thornton wondered aloud and stared out the window, willing the sun to rise. 

_Earlier that day_

Uneven cobblestones flush with trash under air thick with human waste and disease soon gave way to the wide boulevards of Milton's city center. Here, where the sheen of wealth and goods hid the armless boys, hacking wives, and charred remains from sight. It turned out that money could grant what Margaret Hale's reputation had forbidden her: a place to stay the night: The Master's Manor. 

The hotel primarily served other masters, men of industry from America or who wished to see and learn what they could from this northern machine's heart. 

Margaret held tightly to her valise, the gleaming marble and smirking clerk unsettled her almost as much as Nicholas's counsel. She put it from her mind, offering absentminded compliments on the furnishings and rejecting offers to help her change for dinner. She sat on the firm bed, staring at the finely tatted coverings. _Dinner? When did I eat last?_ Her stomach rumbled in response. 

She ran her fingers through her hair and prepared to dine. 

She was shown to a small corner table – whether to hide her as an object of solitary shame or make it easier for Milton richest residents to gawk at her. Her vision blurred as she contemplated the cup of tea placed in front of her. 

_Don't even think about marrying him until you get one thing straight:_

_Do you need him?_

_Or do you want him?_

Want him…her face burned at the memory of his kiss, his fingertips on her cheeks… 

"You eatin' by yer lonesome, then?" a young woman interrupted her thoughts and Margaret's tea sloshed over the impeccable gold tablecloth. 

"Yes, yes, I was," Margaret replied. 

"Well, that's a fine thing – so was I!" The young woman grinned. "We can dine alone together like." She settled down in the chair opposite. "I'm Mary." 

Margaret glanced nervously around the opulent dining room and her companion's gaze hardened. "Mary, I appreciate the kindness, but –" 

"But not from an Irishwoman, is that it?" 

Margaret frowned in confusion, "what? No!" 

"Na bí ag Iarraidh cluain an chacamais a chur orm!" Mary exploded. "Not good enough for you, is that it?" she retorted in English and rose out of the chair. 

"Quite the opposite," Margaret murmured. 

"What you on about?" Mary asked. 

Margaret cleared her throat. "I have a certain reputation in Milton…and London now, too, depending on how quickly the train arrived, I suppose. The worst reputation, actually. Just being seen with me, let alone speaking with me will damage yours." 

Mary sat back down and squinted across the table in the dim candlelight. 

"That's quite the feat," Mary said evenly. "What's your name, then?" 

"Margaret Hale." 

"Well, Margaret Hale, I never thought I'd ever be meetin' a lady with a fiercer reputation than my own. Not sure how I'll ever abide it." she winked. "Mary Burns." 

Margaret reached across the table to shake her hand, much to Mary's surprise. 

"A northern custom," Margaret smiled and a waiter placed a small glass in front of her companion. 

"Cheers," Mary grinned and brought it up to her nose with pleasure, before tipping the entire contents back. 

The glass was re-filled before it hit the table. Mary saluted her thanks at the staff. 

"Wait…Hale? Margaret Hale – of Malborough Mill? Johnathan Thornton's place?" 

"Yes…" Margaret replied hesitantly and was surprised by Mary's bark of laughter. 

"Why you're exactly who we come here for!" Mary slapped the table in pleasure. 

"We?" 

"Mary is speaking of me, Miss Hale," a gentleman said from somewhere behind her. "May I join you?" 

"Sir, I am afraid I have just been explaining to your business partner –" 

"Oooh, business partner, I like the sound of that!" Mary purred. 

"That –" Margaret continued. 

"That if we're seen gettin' on with her, our reputations, such as they are, are ruined," Mary finished. 

The gentleman squeezed Mary's hand and signaled for food to be brought to the table. "Mein schatz, eat something please," he murmured to her. "No more, thank you," he said as the whisky bottle was proffered again. 

"Mary speaks the truth," Margaret said. 

He drew back in surprise and polished his thick glasses. "A ghra, a young lady with a more colorful life than yours?" 

"That's what I was just sayin'!" Mary exclaimed. 

"Now, we must hear all about it. But where are my manners! Call me Friedrich." 

Margaret smiled reflexively. "My brother's name. Well, the English version, of course." 

"Enough with men – egits, all of them!" Mary exploded and much to Margaret's surprise, Friedrich nodded in agreement. 

"It was not your brother that made Malborough Mill the most humane in Milton, was it?" Friedrich asked. 

"And it certainly wasn't Thornton, was it?" Mary added. "So thick that he spent his whole life runnin' mills and never _saw._ " Mary said over a steaming bowl of stew. 

"Saw?" 

"The workers," Friedrich explained. 

"You saw mor'in a day than Thornton ever did," Mary said around a spoonful. 

"Do not speak of Mr. Thornton so," Margaret said. "Please." 

Friedrich abruptly scraped his chair back and bowed. "My sincere apologies, Miss Hale." 

Mary rolled her eyes and pushed the soup bowl away from her. "Oh, sit down, darling." 

"To have offended you, when you have been the very purpose of our visit," he flushed with shame. 

"Sit down," Mary hissed and tugged on his waistcoat. Chastised, he sat. 

The head waiter appeared in front of the table. "Mr. Engels, is everything alright?" He nodded toward Mary and Margaret. 

"Yes, Sanders, thank you. Everything is well." Sanders retreated. 

"Forgive me, but why are you here?" Margaret asked. 

Friedrich smiled and looked toward Mary. Her dark eyes shone with intelligence and humor. "We've come to change the world," she said.


	6. The Machine Hungers

"Change the world?" Margaret echoed numbly. "How?" 

Revolution," he said, blue eyes twinkling. 

Her heart began to race. "You mean like in France? Beheadings? Violence?" 

"No," Mary assured her. "Violence is a tool of the masters." 

He leaned forward, seeming to warm to the subject. "We use unified action to get what we need. What we deserve." 

"And what is it you think you deserve?" Margaret asked. 

"We," he corrected. "Not _you_ but we." 

"Working conditions that won't kill the workers soon as look at them. Especially in factories like Malborough," Mary said. 

"What Milton does today, the rest of the world does tomorrow, people in my business say," Friedrich supplied. 

Mary clapped her hand together, seeming unable to contain her glee. "Malborough Mills is famous – workers and masters all over England look to it- its healthier workers, its higher wages, and yes, the strike." 

"They see the latest developments taking place here – and they want to know where all their workers are going. The highest output, the lowest absent workers," he added. 

"Thanks to you," Mary chimed in. 

"I have done nothing, the mill is Mr. Thornton's affair. Although…I own it now, I suppose," she trailed off. 

Mary laughed. "You criticized a master in front of his workers. You stood in front of a crowd of strikers to protect Irish workers and the strikers themselves!" 

"You provided what we call 'strike funds' to the workers with your baskets so they could continue to fight for just treatment. Did you not do all of these things, Miss Hale?" 

"I…I suppose." 

"A union organizer was hired on – and brought with him the idea of a communal kitchen and did you know that three other mills have created the same? Because Milton did it – first," he said proudly. 

"I cannot take credit for the kitchen," Mary said. 

"No, but you taught a master how to _see_. And you taught the workers to expect more. That they deserved better," he said. 

"It is my Christian obligation," she demurred. 

He grinned and spread his hands palms up. "Ah, but I do not believe in God, yet agree with you." 

Margaret swallowed. _No God?_ "Then you agree because it is our duty to one another, regardless of faith. Because it is right," she snapped. 

"Ja," he breathed. "You are a member of our cause already." 

"I do not have a _cause_ ," she pronounced the word as if tasting something unpleasant. 

"What about your faith?" Mary interjected. 

"Well that's not…" she lowered her voice, "political." 

Friedrich grinned, stroking his neat reddish beard. "Not yet." 

Margaret stood up abruptly, rattling the silverware. "Mr. Engels, Miss Burns, I really must be going –" 

"Too much, Freddy," Mary chided. "You're talkin' to a lass who thinks politics is something you scrape off the bottom of yer boot." 

"Miss Hale," he said, retreating behind formality to put her at ease. "I know you must be distraught. I know this feeling very well. When Mary showed me her side of the factories, the true side – the filth, the rape, the people thrown away like trash…I felt like I was losing my mind." He took off his thick glasses and polished them delicately. "She was like these," he held up the glasses before donning them again, "for me." 

"I am very tired and am going to bed," Margaret managed. 

"Of course," he bowed. "If you wish to speak more, Mary and I will breakfast here at 6 o'clock. Please join us." 

Margaret nodded and was in her room before she realized she was still holding his calling card. She looked around the finely decorated room and burst into tears. How many workers stood underneath each elegant furnishing, knobby, hooked fingers working machines in dim light. Machines that ate their lives. Without undressing, she lay down on the bed and waited for sleep to overtake her grief.


	7. Love and Business

The sun, from Thornton's weary perspective, simply refused to rise. He would look over at the grandfather clock after what seemed an eternity, only to be confronted by the barest shift of the minute hand. 

**If she'll have you**

_Tick_

**What if she won't?**

_Tick_

**You must have to disappoint so many men**

_Tick_

**She won't**

_Tick_

**You have nothing to be grateful for**

Her heart beating in her throat, a fluttering bird against his hand 

The fire burned low and took Thornton's hopes with it. By the time the sun's rays infused his awareness, he resented the doomed certainty in his heart. 

_She will not accept me._

__

**She'd be right not to.**

__

He wrapped himself in that certainty, poisonous though it was, and made it into a shield. He pressed his feelings so hard against that shield until he couldn't feel them anymore. He moved his stool back to its customary position, straightened the papers on his desk, bathed, shaved, and donned his suit. He would have to see if she still wished to invest in the mill. If so, he would arrange for a solicitor to see to the routine financial affairs. He would never have to speak with her again, if he wished it. Or…he could find another backer. He looked back to his desk, the correspondence there. Including one letter, from prominent Prussian business Ermen and Engels. 

_Dear Mr. Thornton,_

_I have watched your mill with great interest over the last several years._

__

__

__

_Given your recent financial state, I have a proposal to discuss. My son will be in Milton –_ Thornton checked the date _\- staying at the Master's Manor. I would be grateful if you would call upon him to discuss our business interests._

__

_Respectfully Yours,_

__

_Friedrich Engels Sr._

__

_Ermen and Engels_

__

He looked at the clock again and grabbed his hat. He studied his reflection, brushing some threads from his dark suit – he looked like his old self again. Just in time to break his fast with one Mr. Friedrich Engels. 

"Mr. Johnathan Thornton to see Mr. Engels, please," he told the front desk. 

"Mr. and Mrs. Engels are in the dining room, Mr. Thornton, if you'll be so good as to wait here." 

"Of course." Thornton waited, hearing the clink of glasses and silverware, the low light breakfast chatter, feeling his shield start to falter. The boy he was, waiting on a rich man. 

"Right this way, Mr. Thornton." He divested himself of his hat and coat before he joined Milton's glittering society. 

Margaret rose at dawn, the waking world a welcome refuge from her nightmares. She plodded over to the mirror, realized she was still in yesterday's dress, and filled a basin with some wash water. She did not know how to face him, the man she agreed to marry. The man she had kissed. She made her way to the dining room and found herself face to face with Friedrich Engels and Mary Burns. 

"Oh, excuse me!" 

"Not at all, lass," Mary winked. 

Margaret nodded to Mr. Engels. "Good morning, sir. You are early risers, I take it?" 

Mary laughed. "We ain't even been to bed yet, luv." 

"Oh, how…efficient," Margaret managed. 

"Won't you join us, Miss Hale as we break our fast?" Engels gestured to a table laden with tea and toast. 

She nodded and silently sat as bread and tea were placed before her in various configurations. 

"This change you wish to bring to the world," she began and caught both of her companions unawares- Mary adding some whisky to her tea and Friedrich with his mouth around a piece of well-buttered toast. 

"Where would the mill fit in your plans? she continued. 

"More coffee, please," he asked the waiter. 

"Right away, sir. You also have a caller, one Mr. Thornton." 

"Excellent, send him in! We have business to discuss." 

"As you wish, sir." 

Mary put down her glass and was studying Margaret intently. "Fred-we need to ask Mr. Thornton to –" 

"Ask me to what?" He was about to bow in the direction of the Engels' guest when he recognized her. Back to him, nonetheless, he recognized the delicate shape of her neck, the gentle curls of her hair, the dress she wore. 

Margaret tipped her chin up defiantly, though her voice was shaking. "For once, Mr. Thornton, this is exactly what it looks like. I am speaking of union rights with revolutionary activists." 

Mary waggled her gloved fingers, "Hello!" she chirped. 

He bowed. "Mrs. Engels, a pleasure." 

"It's Burns, love. We're not married." 

"Oh, I beg your pardon, miss." 

"Not at all! We _are_ lovers after all," she replied brightly. "Tea?" 

"Mary," Engels warned. "Please, sit down, Mr. Thornton." 

Thornton, clearly jarred by Mary's proclamation, seemed to have forgotten about the mention of revolution or activism. 

"Mary and I do not believe that any system which grants man the power to bankrupt, abuse, and force relations upon any woman, is just. We are partners in all things, including business, but will never marry." 

"How…"he looked at Margaret for help. 

"Modern," she supplied. "Do have some tea, Mr. Thornton." She carefully poured his cup and set it in front of him, withdrawing her hand before he could take it from her directly. 

Mary took a piece of toast and speared a pad of butter. "A married man dallies with prostitutes without punishment, while the prostitute will be sent to prison, or worse." She spooned some strawberry jam onto her plate as well. "A married man can act with impunity, his word given weight that his wife's never will and if she protests – well, there is always room at Bedlam." She took a bite out of her breakfast. 

"Of course, wealth plays a role," she added, as Thornton remained dumbstruck. "Rich men silence the righteous poor, every day." 

Thornton's anger at this bizarre conversation suddenly dissipated at the memory of the constable's earnest face. 

"You are…unfortunately correct, Ms. Burns." What would have happened to a constable who had lied to a magistrate? Lied to protect his…he looked over at Margaret. His everything. 

"Peggy here was just telling us about the increased air circulation at Malborough," Mary said, nodding at Margaret. "My god, lass, whatever's wrong! Fred- get some water-quick!" 

"I apologize," she reassured them. "I am fine. My best friend, one of my only friends here called me Peggy. She passed away, followed by my mother, and my father. She was strong. Her…" she trailed off as the sound of a coughing fit dominated the quiet room. 

That cough, that thick, hitching desperation – she looked behind her to see an older gentleman waving away his companions' concerns, steadying himself with small sips of water. Drowning in her own chest, no escape from the death inside her, the price she paid for a lifetime of poverty, a cough that winded high until it transformed into church bells for a service her grieving father could not afford. Margaret gasped but the bell continued somehow and she realized the man whose cough would not kill him was striking a delicate brandy glass for a toast. 

"Her lungs," she gestured toward her body. 

"Mill?" Mary asked and squeezed her hand. 

"I pray that work at Malborough will save lives. Even if it was too late to save hers. If you excuse me, I will leave you to your business. Good morning." Friedrich and Thornton rose from their seats, and received an absent, wan smile in response. "If you will excuse me, I am going to take some air." 

Thornton took a deep, purposeful breath, balling his fists in his lap to keep from following her. "To our business, then." 

"Are you out of yer feckin' mind?" Mary asked. 

"Am I…?" 

"Go after her, you ijit! There's business and there is love. Life can stand the loss of the first." 

Thornton was on his feet before he knew it, no hat or gloves, hurrying to catch up to the woman he loved.


	8. Crossroads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A head's up that this and the chapter after it mention the possible reasons for and discuss the consequences of suicide.

When he reached the main street, she'd gone. Milton had awoken with early morning shifts and shopping, making it impossible to spot her. He walked toward the Hale's former lodgings before reason reasserted itself. He did not know where a young woman without family or friends… 

"No friends," he scoffed to himself. She could call upon any worker in this town, her – Higgins. 

*** 

You just missed her," Mary curtsied. "She took Johnny out for a walk." 

"Where?" 

"I…I don't know. They took some flowers with them." 

_The church._

"Thank you, Mary." 

"Is something the matter, master?" 

"No, no, nothing. I…" 

"You can wait here for them if you like," she said with a dubious look at the room's simplicity. 

He cleared his throat. "I apologize for coming unannounced," he said by way of apology. 

"It’s very southern of you, master," she grinned and gestured to the kitchen chair. 

"Is that what Miss Hale did?" 

Mary nodded as she readied cups and sugar. "She came with her basket and her good wishes and put my father to shame. He'd helped her, then been a bit unkind. He and my…my sister were," she faltered. "He thought she was putting on airs. My sister just hoped she would visit. Then she did," Mary smiled again in remembrance as the kettle boiled. "She was so grave, like, so serious. I thought her a bit high and mighty myself, like she was judging everything 'round her." She shook her head as she poured the water. "I don't know how to explain it…she was taking everything so serious. She was thinking so hard about everything that was being said or done…but she's kind." She set the tea in front of him. 

"You explained Marg-," he corrected as Mary tried to tamp down a knowing smile at his mistake. "You explained Miss Hale very well." 

"We don't have any milk or –" 

"You are very gracious. The tea is lovely." 

His fingers were a drumbeat against his leg when he realized he'd been neglecting his conversational duties to his hostess. 

"So, you and Sarah are friends?" 

Her eyes widened- it had come out like an accusation. 

"Yes, her ma and mine were friends so we grown up together. She's worked for your family for the past five years." 

"Uh, yes, that seems right." He drained his cup. 

"It was very kind of you to take her on after her da' passed." 

He nodded and stared at the dregs. 

You didn't know, did you?" she asked quietly. 

He hung his head, the tea bitter in his stomach. "No." 

"No, I suppose not. Why would you?" 

That casual dismissal somehow hurt more than if she'd struck him. Five years in his life and he'd paid no more mind to her than if she were part of the furniture, like Fanny's much belabored piano. Margaret would have know this, probably did in fact. 

"You know," she began, "she really likes working for you." 

He set the cup down again, thinking to a hundred moments of his own indifference, of Fanny's temper, of his mother's stoic perfection. "Mary, that can't be true." 

"It is true!" she objected. "Unlike some households around here, a girl knows when you ask her to come into your rooms and lay a fire, well, you really just want the girl to lay the fire!" 

Thornton thought of Mr. Engel's Irish companion, her mention of the indignities visited among the female workers, though his thoughts were interrupted by Higgins' entrance. 

If he was surprised by Thornton's presence, he didn't show it. He was dressed in a dark suit, his hair freshly wet and combed back, rough boots from the night before, but clean. Mary squeezed his shoulder lightly and set a cup in front of him 

"How is she?" she murmured. 

"She's well," he said. "There are flowers on the hillside where the air is so clean and clear…" he focused on Thornton for the first time. 

"You looking for Margaret?" 

He nodded. 

"She wasn't at the church, if that's what you're – wait, is the boy with her?" At Mary's nod, he suddenly flushed red and stood up. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and remained silent. 

"Da?" 

He looked only at Thornton. "Take the long road out of town," he said quietly. "You'll find them." 

***

Thornton heard Margaret's voice, before he saw her, anger and worry and guilt all warring in his heart. 

"- favorite?" she inquired from beyond the bushes. He paused at a child's indistinct response. 

"Well then, we shall put the red ones…here. How's that, Johnny?" 

"S'n'right," was the soft reply. 

"Miss Hale, far be it from me to intrude on your countryside gamboling but –" his anger dropped away. 

Margaret stepped in front of the child, unthinkingly placing herself between his misplaced fury and the child. He also saw that having misspoken so gravely, she would lock their true purpose from him. 

"You are quite right, Mr. Thornton. Time to go, Johnny. Enough strolling for today." Carefully keeping the boy behind her dress – and it wounded him how naturally she protected the weak from his anger – she joined him on the path back to town, pushing the child in the lead. 

"Margaret, I know what you were doing!" he burst out at her back. 

"Yes, you have made that abundantly clear. We were picking wildflowers and I lost track of the day." 

He stopped. "You lie so easily to the man you're set to marry." 

"One might say the same of your temper," she retorted and he grabbed for her arm. 

"Margaret, now that I understand what you were do-" 

"Mr. Thornton, why must you always attack _before_ you understand?" 

"Want't'go," Johnny said. 

"Of course." She turned her back on Thornton and picked up the boy. He whispered in her ear and her eyes grew wet again. She nodded, lips pressed into a thin line, and set him down once more. He scampered past Thornton back down to the clearing, picked up the discarded red flowers and set them reverently against a small white stone on the side of the clearing. 

"Love you, momma," they heard him whisper. 

Love at the crossroads, where those who died by suicide finally rest, unsanctified.


End file.
